Apocalypse
by Anthony E. Stark
Summary: Ickle teeny tiny one-shot about a zombie apocalypse in London. BAMF!Jawn, kinda Mystrade, and kinda Johnlock. Enjoy!


**Apocalypse**

**We're in the area. Text me if you're still alive and I'll come over. - SH**

**If you're not alive then text me anyway and I'll come over anyway. - SH**

The movies had come true, the crazy people didn't seem so crazy, the prophecies had come true; a disease had swept across England and was turning innocent civilians into the "walking dead" - or what were popularly referred to as "zombies". London was avoided by anyone who had even an ounce of common sense because there was a massive population, which meant a massive amount of zombies. Only the stupid and braindead (literally) remained, except for Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade, who were currently hiding in an abandoned supermarket.

"Who on Earth would be texting you now?" Greg whispered while looking over Mycroft's shoulder, the light from the phone illuminating their faces in the dim storage room.

"Sherlock," he knew he didn't have to answer but thought that ignoring the question would be rude.

"Do you think he'd let us... live with him and John for a bit?"

99% of people living in London had either been transformed into a zombie, eaten by zombies or moved into the countryside. As far as they knew, only Mycroft, Greg, Sherlock and John remained; the detective duo still living in 221B and travelling around in a stolen black cab, Mycroft and his partner hiding out in supermarkets – unable to find a permanent place to live and wondering how the hell the other two managed to keep their house.

He didn't want to accept his brother's help that easily but Sherlock was already on his way here and it wasn't as if he had anything to lose, "Fine, we'll ask him..."

Minutes later they heard a car pulling up outside, both of them glancing at each other in the darkness before cautiously unlocking the door. It was very rare to hear a car – or practically any type of vehicle – since the dead had taken over the country and nobody else would be pulling up in a supermarket car park, so they knew instantly who it was.

Mycroft sat with an ear to the door, listening out for any zombies that may be nearby, and only nodded to his partner to signal that the coast was clear when he heard the non-shuffling footsteps of two very alive men outside. They tried to quickly make themselves presentable before leaving the safety of the store room; both of them were dressed in very expensive suits that were now bloodstained, muddied and tattered around the edges from a life of rough living. Sherlock and his partner John were waiting outside, looking almost bored but very smug as they were dressed in what seemed to be new clothes – stolen because there was no such thing as a shopkeeper any more. The only things that weren't new were the detective's long trench coat, John's leather jacket, and the very dark sunglasses that covered Sherlock's ever-deducting eyes.

"This supermarket's very empty. You didn't _eat_ the zombies, did you? Bad for the diet."

"Sherlock!" John glared at the smug taller man before shooting an apologetic glance in Mycroft's direction, "Sorry about him, he's just bored there's no longer any crime."

"But plenty of dead people to deduce," Lestrade added with a half smile.

"Boring. It's easy to know how they died..." The consulting detective drawled as he looked around the empty aisles around him.

"Brother," that caught Sherlock's attention instantly, "Me and Gregory were wondering if perhaps we could stay with you two until we can find a safe place to stay ourselves?"

The younger Holmes was taken aback by the sudden request, "Erm, sure. I guess the apartment does seem a bit too empty at times."

John and Greg just looked at each other in shock; never had either of them thought that the two brothers would ever be friendly but it seems that they would both put aside their differences when in need.

The moment was ruined as John looked back at the detective, eyes widening, pulled out his gun and shot just over Sherlock's shoulder, narrowly missing the genius.

"John! Why the hell did you do that?!" Sherlock yelled at the doctor, who was still pointing the gun in his direction with an unreadable expression on his face, before turning to see a chubby male lying by his feet with a fresh bullet hole in his head and the unmistakable look of the undead.

The doctor raised an eyebrow, now supporting the smug grin that Sherlock seemed to have lost, while the other two just stood in shock at the intruder crashing the reunion, "You're welcome."

"Thanks," the detective still seemed to be a bit in shock, probably not familiar with being surprised, "We should get back to 221B now."

_**Disclaimer: **The story is most definitely mine but the characters etc. aren't. Seriously._

_A/N: Whenever I go to write a new chapter for Meow, I end up with a new Sherlock one-shot... Don't shoot me!_

_- Tony_


End file.
